


idol of fritz

by DrakeMuppet



Series: the last playboy [2]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst, Casual Sex, Character Study, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Falling In Love, Forbidden Love, Jealousy, Levi/reader if you squint hard enough - Freeform, Marley Arc (Shingeki no Kyojin), Multi, Non-Explicit Sex, Obsessive Behavior, Praise Kink, Unrequited Love, yes reader is a guy you normie homophobes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-12 13:00:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28760682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrakeMuppet/pseuds/DrakeMuppet
Summary: yelena fell for a devil playing god.but she can’t wrap her mind around zeke kissing your hands like some godforsaken treasure—this, while your eyes constantly beckon to her with this odd pleading.~~a focus on yours and zeke’s relationship, his strange obsession with you, and yelena’s one-sided pining.
Relationships: Levi/Reader, Yelena (Shingeki no Kyojin)/Reader, Zeke Yeager/Reader, Zeke Yeager/Yelena
Series: the last playboy [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2108592
Comments: 15
Kudos: 112





	1. i.

**Author's Note:**

> for context, some pieces will be taken from my other work in the series: “to thirst for flame”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic is not linear story-telling, so please pay attention to dates as things tend to hop around.

854

There was a knock at your office door; tap, tap.

“Come in,” you coughed.

The governor was early, apparently.  
_Apparently._

You were swearing quietly, opening a drawer and sliding the line of powder into its contents. You pushed it shut, stuck a small key into the lock and turned once.

The door clicked open and your butler ushered him in.

You held a shaking hand to your nose, sniffled up the last few specs of ecstasy before you stood, flashing your best smile for—

“Warchief Zeke Yeager, sir,” announced your butler.

You blinked.

“Thank you, Sherman,” you replied, eyes wide on the “guest”.

“Of course, sir.”

The door clicked shut again.

You cleared your throat, smile flashing on and off. Your voice came—uncharacteristically soft.

“Zeke.”

What, had he come to apologize?

Had he come so _you_ could apologize?

Before he and his Warriors were sent abroad in the latter days of the Mid-East conflict, you both fell out.

Hard.

He’d brought the Fritz thing up in your car of all places, went again on that tangent that he was doing it for the world, for you.

You’d slapped him for that.

Now you cleared your throat again, sniffled once more.

“I, uh—,”

You looked down at the disaster of your desk where a “newspaper” lie underneath other documents, diagrams, photographs.

“I heard my guns really ripped into Mr. Braun.”

You stood then, came around to the front of the desk to lean against it, palms grasping its edges.

“...I apologize.”

Upon Fort Slava, the Armored Titan had been witnessed to be pulverized by your guns—your guns, indirectly.

You’d sold a model of anti-Titan artillery to the Mid-East some years ago. Secretly, you congratulated their sense to attach it to an armored train.

Your hand was in the weapon development of many nations, not just Marley, they begrudgingly came to realize.

“Anyway,”

You let your head dip and you pressed your lips into a tight smile, pushing off the desk to approach him.

Your office was immense with the desk situated atop a slight landing. You stepped down the few stairs onto the red carpet sprawling into the rest of the room, complimenting its imported armchairs, ottomans and dainty sofas—grand bookcases, the skeleton of a bull elephant.

As you drew closer to Zeke, you could feel yourself tense, feel your lips push into a frown as you searched for a familiarity that was no longer there.

It was as if he were somehow taller, broader in that crisp white military jacket.

Taller, broader—older.  
Much older.

His eyes were lined behind Ksaver’s spectacles, that boyish blue-gold sparkle dimmed in its luster.

Zeke’s hair, too, had seemed to lose its honeycomb gold. It just sat with a bleached starkness like the sun on a winter afternoon.

“Oh, Zeke,”

Your was voice was soft.


	2. ii.

842

Your eyes, lax and charismatic, grinned up at him through the ink of the page.

Zeke placed his hand there, heart stirring with aches.

“You really admire this man, don’t you?” Tom remarked, face just over the boy’s shoulder.

Zeke snapped the book shut and Tom laughed. 

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

He ruffled a hand through Zeke’s hair, thick and warm like the rays of the summer sun.

“Y/N Trancy is a very admirable intellectual...albeit his radical economic and social perspectives turn off many conservative folk.”

With a sigh, Tom sat down next to Zeke on the steps leading into the sandy courtyard.

“But still,”

The older man picked up an idle stone, pushed to and fro in his leathery hands.

“I can see how he enchants so many.”

Zeke let his eyes flit close, his head tilt back with the weight of his anticipation.

“He’s going to be here tonight, you know. Here, in Marley.”

Tom perked up at the words. Dark eyes glinted behind his glasses as he remembered.

“That’s right—at Lord Tybur’s gala after the summit. He’s Acrecia’s current ambassador, right?”

Zeke nodded, scrunched his broad shoulders together.

“The candidates and I will be waiting the guests.”

A blonde brow twitched with apprehension. Color flashed across the youth’s handsome features.

“I may actually meet him.”

Tom, wondering after the boy’s curious, distant tone, turned his head to look at Zeke.

When he saw the quivering behind that tender blue-gold, Tom knew  _immediately_ .

“No, Zeke—,” he began, voice pleading.

Zeke slid his hands up to his eyes, crouched forward to lean into his knees.

“I’m so in love I don’t know what to do—,” he wept aloud, surprised at his sudden breakdown and the tears spilling from his eyes and into his hands.

He felt the pressure of Tom’s sudden embrace, of Tom pulling Zeke into him, a hand holding his head against his chest.

Tom was quiet, but it was because he understood. To be an Eldian, and to have your heart stolen by someone who was not—it was the equivalent of having it ripped out completely.

Tom rocked the sobbing boy as he squinted up into the cloudless sky. 

* * *

  
Zeke.

He hailed from a humble background.

Humble, though, was all anyone could be within the Liberio Internment Zone.

But his grandparents knew the value of intellect.

They allowed Zeke to have any book he so desired within reason; political readings were always limited.

By twelve Zeke was perusing historical narratives, atlases and geographical texts. He knew the history of Marley better than all of the students in upper Marleyan prep schools, knew how to recite poetry on a whim.

The books—tomes and encyclopedias; they all served him well at the beginning of Grisha’s dark days.

But you.

It was you who carried him through those desolate hours locked inside the house, those times when he didn’t know if the footsteps by the door were his rebel parents come home, or authorities come to haul him off to Paradis.

Back then you were in your late teens—a boy wonder who could seemingly go anywhere and do nearly anything.

Your stories of adventure and intrigue were an escape, your stories about taking down rabid bears with a single pistol, adding turbines to hot air balloons.

Zeke would often shut his tearful eyes and paint himself there with you. In those days, he believed it was just his wistful desire to have an elegant, heroic older brother.

Yet as time wound on, when you published new works, there’d be a slight flutter in his chest when he’d see Y/N Trancy, your name, penned in golden cursive upon the cover.

That flutter morphed into an explosion of passionate recognition when he’d glimpse your photograph before every first chapter. Increasingly, Zeke found himself lingering there, lost in your face, in the heaviness of your eyes, in the poise of your posture, lithe and graceful like an athlete’s.

You kept your (h/c) hair in that infuriatingly iconic, messy bun—the wisps loose around your boyish, sweet-facedness.

When Zeke found himself in the tangles of adolescence, it was your controversial book, “Gentlemen of the Jungle” that set within him a pining that couldn’t be quenched.

He’d find his heart pounding as you described the vast world and intricate details of sex. His mind involuntarily attached your face to the lewd and climactic examples, your half-naked body reclined lazily upon a divan, beckoning him.

The simmer in Zeke’s cheeks only sweltered as his curiosity pressed him onward, trembling eyes drinking up your words:

_“When it comes down to the thrill of sex, boldness is something I’ve always entirely adored; more so in men than in—,”_

That day, though, a hand reached abruptly from behind him and slammed the book shut.

Zeke turned to see his grandfather staring back at him, features grave, brow turned downward.

“You’re not to read anything of Y/N Trancy in this house.” He snapped.

Old Mr. Yeager’s hands reached for the binding, but Zeke slapped a possessive hand over it. He moved it away.

“You said I could read anything I want. Y/N Trancy isn’t even Marleyan!” Zeke began, surprised to find his voice loud, rebellious.

His grandfather shook his head once, reaching for the book again.

“I understand, Zeke. But Trancy is going to have to be an exception.”

Zeke moved the book further away.

“His books aren’t even political!”

His grandfather succeeded in grabbing it. He pried your words out of the Zeke’s fingers.

“That perverted prettyboy has too many dangerous ideas—turning lads into flighty, arrogant fools.”

The older man started toward the fireplace crackling with flame for the evening. He turned once to look into his grandson’s pouting face, shaking the book with emphasis.

“You shall not be one of them.”

He tossed it into the fireplace where the flames leapt, danced, and tore it apart.

* * *

Nervous was an understatement.

The bottle of wine trembled in his arms.

His legs felt stiff when the noble Mistress Tybur made eye contact, gestured her empty glass to him.

Seated across from her was the legendary Willy Tybur, his head tossed back as he laughed at one of your jokes.

You.

You were seated next to him—the only one who could make Willy, at his own gala, appear dry and humorless.

Y/N Trancy.

You were the sun, and in the starry atmosphere of the evening, everyone was pulled into your orbit.

There were whispers from people who didn’t have the confidence to get any closer, hopeful glances from women, wary stares from their husbands.

Even the Marleyan children, in their miniature gowns and suits chattered and pointed.

“I heard he’s so rich he could make Willy his butler.” Bragged one girl in dark pigtails with ribbons.

“Yeah, right!” Sniffed a freckled boy dressed in red.

Pieck wandered up to Zeke, both of them identical in their waiter’s uniforms.

She smiled an easy smile.

“Want me to go?”

Zeke blinked, shook himself out of his panicked trance. He looked at her.

“H-huh?”

Pieck pointed with her head toward where you were seated with the Tyburs. The Mistress was waiting with a polite smile.

“No...I’ll go.” Zeke replied.

* * *

Though you were on the shorter end of the spectrum, you had a sinister reputation for holding your alcohol despite the teasings.

Your glass was empty, resting lazily between your middle and index just as he was approaching.

Mistress Tybur smiled up at the youth as he refilled hers.

“This is the Beast Titan candidate, Willy.” She chirped.

You glanced up at the words “beast” and “Titan”, the latter being something you’d never quite seen despite your smorgasbord of experience.

You met his eyes because his eyes weren’t on anything but you—wide, trembling blue-gold.

He was a handsome boy, tall and strong-shouldered, blonde hair neat and glossy. It was ironic, because one would never look at the boy and think “beast”.

His voice was low, kind as he greeted the rest around him, greeted Willy, eyes continuing to be locked on you only.

“What’s your name?” You asked, half smiling.

The youth’s eyes fluttered, his cheeks flushing a brilliant scarlet.

His lips moved, but no words escaped. Worst of all, he’d become unaware that the wine he was pouring into the mistresses’s cup was about to overflow.

“Z-Zeke.” He stammered—an utterly smitten fool.

“I’m Zeke Yeager.”


	3. iii.

845 

Acrecia’s war with Marley wasn’t unexpected.

Bad trade deals, tariff disputes and Marley’s historically poor diplomacy; it all boiled over with the Marleyan naval incident—an Acrecian commerce vessel being sunk for its “lack of identification” in Marleyan waters.

But the war didn’t last long after Acrecia declared it so. Your homeland was a small island in a southern sea; an eighth of the size of Paradis.

Even though it was known to be wealthy and picturesque, Acrecia was easily overwhelmed by Marley’s vast size and inexhaustible military resource.

In a last attempt effort to secure the capital, the Acrecian military requested permission to use the prototype of your railway gun, Greyhorn; by the time it was secured, many could see the Colossal on the horizon.

It only had the chance to fire once before the Beast Titan’s shrapnel ripped it and its engineering crew to pieces.  
  
You’d heard about it eventually whilst at Kiyomi’s dining table, freshly escaped to Hizuru.

The woman shook her dark-haired head, slim eyes pinching shut as she wondered when it’d be Hizuru’s turn.

Marleyan headlines went on to say the capital of Acrecia was taken in a record two hours.

But headlines in other countries told a different tale: “Colossal Titan Broken in 2 by Trancy’s Prototype”.

* * *

Zeke’s chest was tight the day you and the Trancy engineers arrived.

He and Pieck stared anxiously out the headquarters windows. Porco just sat on the wooden steps, inattentive with a book and mustard hotdog.

“So he really said yes to Tybur’s proposition,” gasped Pieck, peering past a curtain.

“Y/N Trancy and his engineering company are really going to strengthen the Warrior, marine and army branches!”

She looked at Zeke, black eyes bunching up with excitement.

“Isn’t that great?”

Zeke was silent as you stepped into the frame of his specs, cigarette betwixt your fingers, lips pulled into a vulpine grin at the words of your assistant. He was the tall young man beside you, long-limbed in his grey three-piece and longcoat, brown hair styled in an opulent undercut.

Was this really happening?

There were teams of foreign young men and women in engineering slacks, some with dark goggles on their heads, around their necks.  
They hauled in crate after crate of supplies, talking and swearing amongst themselves.

Even from the window, Zeke and Pieck could make out the cursive black “T” on the right breast of their crisp white button-ups.

They weren’t ordinary young people. Becoming a Trancy engineer was a prestigious opportunity—a one-way ticket to the business, economic and scientific elite in relevant, wealthy nations.

The Warriors had heard of many rejected Marleyans enlisting to become an officer—to lick their wounds with countless others.

Due to Marley’s lack of technological prowess, getting hired as a Trancy engineer was nigh to impossible.

Zeke continued to watch as you greeted Magath, pulled a lazy hand through your (h/c) locks.

Did you know?  
Did you _know_ it was his monstrous hands that destroyed your masterpiece of a railway gun?

“Yeager, Finger, Galliard,” a Marleyan corporal appeared at the bottom of the steps, calling up to them.

“You’ve been summoned outside by the commander. Report now.”

This was all wrong, Zeke thought.

He was supposed to save the world first, then meet you—meet you as a military elite who’d just annihilated the Eldian menace. He was supposed to meet you at a ball somewhere, medals gleaming around his neck, openly and unabashedly sweeping you off your feet.

Not _this_.

* * *

“They’re young things, aren’t they?” Johan remarked, watching as 3 of Marley’s Warriors were escorted outside.

He pointed with his cigarette.

“You’ll probably be working with that small girl there, the Cart Titan.”

Your assistant yawned, pushed stray brown strands out of his face.

“I don’t know which of those boys is the Beast, though.”

Johan turned to you, handsome features working into curious concern.

“Did it really destroy twenty million in assets? Kill everyone at that warehouse?”

You took long, angry drag at your own cigarette and huffed the cloud into the air.

“Precisely. Fucking Greyhorn will have to be scrapped and rebuilt. But that will be done here.”

You nodded east toward buildings and property you bought up. They’d been leveled to make room for the construction of your new warehouse.

Until it was complete, you and your engineers would be working out of this Marleyan military headquarters.

You made eye contact with the particularly good-looking boy—the tall blonde with glasses and eldest of the trio.

His blue eyes hurriedly rushed away from yours.

You mused that he was uncomfortable. But your playful soul _adored_ that fact.


	4. iv.

851

Once he left the room, Yelena reached over to snatch it off one of the bookcases and into her eager hands.

Zeke’s journal—the ultimate personal guide to the enigmatic young god, all blonde and ruggedly handsome.

She knew she had no business intruding on something so intimate...so _him_.

But Yelena persisted, fingering through the pages of the journal, noting their texture, sporadic stains and occasional runny words hinting it’d been dropped in water before.

Yelena skimmed and hopped around, marveling at the cursive swears he used to defame the harshness of his candidate days. There were sketches here and there, intricate diagrams of turtle skulls and birds’ wings, a recipe for moonshine, an expensive, unused blunt taped to one page.

When her thumb and index went to turn to another page, distantly hoping she’d find some mention of herself, something loose slid free from the pages.

Photographs fell to her feet and she hissed a low “ _fuck_ ”. Yelena picked them back up, fingers hasty.

Once they were in her hands for her to glimpse more closely, her heart tumbled to a halt. 

Were they what she _thought_ they were?

Yelena fumbled through some of the photographs (about a half dozen) and the question was promptly answered. 

In one, you were sprawled out on a fur rug wearing nothing but knee-high socks and those expensively heeled boots rich Marleyans wore in the capital. Your effeminately manicured fingers rested artistically around your sex.

Yelena’s widened eyes fell onto another photo, the one in which you wore nothing but a fur coat, body wound lewdly to a bed post, red lips grinning pointedly at the photographer.

She looked at one more, the one depicting you reclined naked on a velvet chaise lounge absentmindedly smoking a cigar, expression calm, introspective.

Shell shocked, Yelena flipped one over and squinted at the few scribbled words: “ _To my insatiable wonderboy.”_

Signed _: “Y/N Trancy”_  
Date _: 849_

The sound of returning footsteps threw her heart into her throat.

Yelena shoved the erotic photographs into the journal and slapped it closed.

She’d just slid it back onto its obscure home on the bookcase and sat down when Zeke reappeared, a pitcher and two mugs in his hands.

He passed one to her and took a seat back at his desk.

Zeke opened a folder, pushed up his glasses.

“Anyway, it’s just as I was saying before—,”

But as much as Yelena adored the tired, husky low of his voice, Zeke’s words were lost in the fog of her emotions.

Her hands had balled into tight fists. They rested on her slim, trembling thighs.

 _You?_ He had something going on with _you_? That short, tempestuous invention mogul and socialite?

Zeke paused, noticing her tense unease.

“You okay?”

Yelena jerked, opened her mouth to speak, but she could hardly get a sound out.

”I—,”

“Must be hot in here,” Zeke decided.

He pushed back in his chair, swiveled around to unlock and crack open the window behind him.

“You’re quite flushed is all.”

Right as he made mention, Yelena put a hand to her face and felt it; felt the _blush_.

Before he could turn away from the view of the courtyard, an expensive car was pulling up and grinding to a stop on the gravel.

“Oh, looks like Y/N’s here to pick up Pieck’s diagrams.”

Now with the new context, Yelena watched Zeke watch you; you, emerging with flask of liquor at your lips.

You stepped, no stumbled, out the car. The pair watched on as your anxious driver rushed over to scoop you back up.

“He’s a mess; before noon, even,” sighed Zeke, blue eyes dimming with wistfulness.

She’d seen him stare at you like this before, but everyone did; you were hard to ignore, quietly beautiful and brimming with surly charisma—clothed like an industrial prince.

But when Zeke had been looking at you, it wasn’t that mute, comfortable favor or leering annoyance others had.

It was what it was now: the gaze of a man in love—simmering and raw.

Yelena thought of the photographs again, your smooth (s/c) skin and intoxicating glow far removed from the ragged military lifestyle.

She thought of your bare body on the divan, dainty fingers cupped round your member.

She thought too, of the times she’d pass by one of your open-roofed cars, of you just sitting there, staring idiotically into the sky, high as a _blimp_.

And she thought of you now, the man dressed in the spring suit, blacking out and being lain down in the back of his car; drunk out of his mind before lunch.

But you were what Zeke _wanted_. 

And Yelena felt the ice shoot through her veins.


	5. v.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aglia: “Italy’s” landmass  
> Acrecia: “Sicily’s” landmass.

845

For the past few days, the administration building at headquarters bred chaos. The brass had made the last minute decision to relocate every office of lesser military officials.

The vacant spaces would then make room for all of your secretaries, your assistants, managers, and correspondents, financiers—it was as if the steady stream of affluent, black-dressed men and women would never cease to a trickle.

Inside the building, the incessant comings and going’s made the hallways cramped, bustling, shoulders knocking against shoulders.

Groups of white-clad Marleyans idled in the courtyard, wide-eyed as they witnessed the potential re-invention their military.

Not everyone, though, particularly adored it, these stuck-up foreigners, (mostly from Acrecia), and the language barrier coming with it.

But all of it was your deal with Tybur put into play.

Now that Acrecia and Aglia were Marleyan territories, Tybur set it straight.

Though his face had its kind, moonish glow, his tone was serious as he spoke only, and only in the name of your friendship: you’d either manufacture weapons for Marley or have all of your assets seized by the state.

Though your relationship was sawed down to meager aquaintedness, you made your choice.

And currently, it was ogling you quite fixedly behind those peculiar glasses.

* * *

Zeke peered in and there—there you _were_.

You sat radiantly at the edge of the desk, one leg crossed over the other, a cigarette resting precariously between two fingers.

You were wearing a scarlet blazer set aflame by the golden broach fixed to a lapel—a songbird in flight. The white shirt beneath hung in a dramatic “v”, the outline of your slight pectorals quite visible.

“Oh, lookie here,” you greeted, dramatically keening out the e.

“Marley’s Wonderboy.”

Johan glanced away from the window, a smoldering joint pinched between his lips. He gave Zeke a once-over, boredom rolling his dark eyes.

“Well, isn’t it a _fucking_ pleasure?”

The two were as out of place in Tsaver’s old, dingy little office as two sultans in a derelict orphanage.

Zeke tarried stupidly in the doorway, felt his heart flutter when you turned to speak brief, irritated Acrecian to Johan. It gave Zeke a perfect glimpse of your intricate earrings—diamond-gold studs and small hoops.  
Because of the way the sunlight split across your features, he could even make out a hint of blush on your cheeks, a dash of red painted on your lips.

You were simply _outrageous,_ and Zeke marveled at how his grandfather would vehemently disapprove.

You tapped your cigarette over an ashtray and put it back to your lips, waved him over, eyes grinning.

“Don’t be shy,” you tutted, “the world doesn’t run on shy men.”

Zeke hesitantly took a step forward and gave a shy smile despite your admonishing.

The longer your eyes stayed locked to his, the more likely it’d be that his heart would rend itself to pulpy shreds should it beat any faster.

Your hand hung in the air awaiting his, and Zeke clasped it, felt your skin—felt _you_.

When he shook, there was an unexpected eruption of guilt, a biting, splintering pain he couldn’t quite enunciate into words. He was a predator—a _predator_ —to put his hands on something so lovely. There was a nefarious audacity behind it, a wolf’s audacity; a wolf who wanted to make love to the rabbit he’d just bitten the foot off of.

And it was in him, it was behind Zeke’s well-groomed, boyish veneer; that wolf savagely hurling itself into the crumbling door of his subconscious—the wolf that ached to pin you to the floor, lick the paint off your gasping lips, grab tight fistfuls of your hair as you sensually whined for him to stop.

Yes, Zeke’s self-hatred was indescribable.

But—your fingers were cool to the touch, made cooler the jade band on your pinky, the silver ring on your index.

Your lips curved softly upward at him, and your (e/c) eyes, no longer trapped behind a page, met his with a coy glimmer, and Zeke knew immediately he’d sell just sold his soul to Ymir’s devil.

“So it’s just...Zeke, then? Not Ezekiel or anything?”

Zeke blushed like a child, like a flustered babe.

“It’s just Zeke.”

He glanced at you briefly, tilted his head to the side and allowed a finger to scratch at his ear.

“O-or Yeager if you’d prefer. Yeager’s fine.”

Your eyes slitted playfully.

“I like _Zeke_.”

“Okay,” Zeke inhaled. He’d nearly gasped, nearly choked on his breath. 

Finally, your eyes fell away. 

“Welp, _Zeke_ —,”

You slapped both hands to your thighs, abruptly ending the exchange.

“Let us discus how you completely and totally fucked Greyhorn up the arse.”

Still at the window, Johan put the back of his hand to his lips, covering up a smirk he couldn’t help.

Zeke was dazed.

It was a dream come true, but—his nerves would constantly be aflame; an incessant, panicked high at the reality of your nearness.

In the moment he could actually see the pores in your skin, the individual (h/c) strands of your hair—your dimples when you abruptly grinned, the beauty mark just below your left eye.

And your scent; your _scent_ —sweet, spiced, poignant and foreign.

Being in love to the point of tears would be excruciating; mind-numbingly exhausting.

Truthfully, the holder of the Beast Titan wasn’t sure how long he could carry on without utterly snapping at this bitter-sweet fate.


	6. vi.

845

Johan did _not_ like Zeke.

But Zeke knew this immediately, and knew even more immediately, that dislike was too light of a term; it was the day Magath wandered in with two manila folders.

“These documents go into detail of the Cart and Beast Titans’ physiology,” he said, sliding the folders into your hand.

Zeke stood silent behind his commanding officer, clenching and unclenching his sweating hands.

It was the moment he’d been dreading once the numbing high of your closeness was beginning to wear off.

It became clear to Zeke, and he was mortified. You, the one he loved, the one he _adored_ , would be seeing him for what he was.

When it was the time for the love of Ksaver’s life to see, she happily slit her own throat and the throat of their child.

_Now_ , you.

Zeke didn’t want you to look at them.   


No, he couldn’t let you look at them; the photographs of the thing he was—the thing with a wicked row of teeth, the thing, whose ugly freakish hands could destroy your new warehouse with the slightest swipe. 

It was there, proven in the hard mathematics and physics that he was, in fact, a thing, a demon—inhuman and unfit for you in every way.

Would your slight wrist begin to tremble as you reached for your letter opener? Would you stare widely and emptily at him? Carve a clean gash from ear to ear, slump backward as a scarlet waterfall splashed onto your blazer and little pink boutonnière?

You offered a slight grin, a little sliver of your perfect teeth.

“Only two folders? How disappointing…I was really looking forward to studying the Colossal, but—,” your eyes, coy and sweet, fell onto Zeke, weakening his knees.

“You’ll do just fine, I’m sure.”

Yet, without peeking at them, you held out the folders to Johan standing behind you, then motioned to the armchair in front of the desk.

“Have a seat, boy.”

Pallid, Zeke sat down, folded his hands on his lap, and watched Johan finger through the first folder, Pieck’s, with sudden interest.

“Apologies for the spareness of it, but as you probably know, the other Four are being sent away for the Paradis operation,”Magath explained.

You nodded agreeably.

“Yes, well—,”

Your voice and Magath’s tangled together, blurring into a backdrop of sound as Zeke observed your assistant.

He finished skimming Pieck’s information, then pulled Zeke’s folder to the top, flicked it open to the first page.

Then he flicked it back closed, and the offense could be seen furrowing his thick brows.

His mouth dropped open to utter something, but it closed when he saw you were still talking.

So, he just glared at Zeke.

With pitch black hatred.

* * *

854

Yelena was an atheist.

Until _he_ exploded from the sea.

She’d been at peace, prepared to be shredded to pieces by Mid-Eastern guns, to be flung into to sea as bits for the fish to chew at.

Her hand was at her breast where she felt the square of metal beneath her uniform; the letter to her family, should it ever be pulled up in a fisherman’s net.

Then, _he_.

He was larger than two of their ships put together, his arms, covered in muddy fur, were thicker than trees, taller than the eldest.

Shrapnel glinted in his massive fist, and he hurled it at the enemy, hand rebounding back into the wave with a massive splash.

It was the Mid-Eastern fleet that was ripped to shreds instead, pulped flesh and metal scraps floating down past the fish and their dead eyes.

When he lifted her empty, half-flooded rowboat up and out of the water, Yelena’s vocal chords were halted, much like Miche’s, but mortal horror was his reason for silence.

Yelena was sanctified.

When he spoke, his voice rumbled through her bones, rippled the surface of the waters, tore into her immortal soul.

Then, _him_.

His hair was honey-comb blonde, curly at the edges.

Barely in his mid-twenties with the most ancient blue eyes, their antiquity intensified by the glasses of his mentor.

Handsome in a rugged, wandering way, driving the village girls stark raving mad when they didn’t quite feel the same after being beneath his touch.

This god.

_Her_ god.

And now, on a blimp to Paradis, she stood with her eye pressed through a crack in the door, watching him kiss you like it was the end of the world— _you,_ who could never measure up in your vain, vapid inferiority. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah, there was a switcharoo.  
> this chapter felt like a more fitting follow-up for pacing and such.
> 
> i dunno; maybe not. 
> 
> i’m an impulsive, sensitive lil’ shit.


End file.
